Hallelujah
by vlalekat
Summary: A series of disconnected holiday/winter-themed character studies of companions across the Commonwealth.
1. Hallelujah (Hancock)

Hallelujah: Part One (Hancock)

Notes: This was written and edited in an insane twelve-hour Christmas-happy fervor this afternoon. I hope you all enjoy, and happy holidays.

* * *

The room is dim, as always. The boarded-over windows let in a bit of brilliant neon from the streets below; the fractured pink light from the Memory Den sign casts a shadow on Magnolia's limp body on the bed.

Hell of a gal, that one.

Hancock reaches one withered, leathery hand out to the inhaler of Jet that sits on the table beside his chair and lifts it to his mouth. One long hit later, and he's flying on rooftops, his skin aflame even as his heart is a piece of ice. Or maybe it's the other way around; perhaps it's his heart burning a hole through his chest even as his skin freezes over.

He looks down at the supple curve of Magnolia's hip, at the smooth skin of her naked thigh, pale under the pink light, and wonders why he still feels so alone. He ought to feel satisfied, if nothing else. The broad came up to him that night for the first time - usually he's the one dealing with her capricious nature, but this time she came after him, all red lips and bouncing breasts and since when has he been one to say no to...well, anything?

He sighs; the jet inhaler drops from his hand and lands on the floor with a clatter. He can see it down there, the pink handle - it's only a few inches away but also miles, and instead he slumps in his chair, his mind singing and his fingers fumbling in his coat for the half-smoked pack of cigarettes he knows are in there.

Eventually, he finds them and pulls one from the crumpled pack. Lighting it is another struggle, but somehow he finds his lighter and flips it open. It lights on the third try, and then he's sucking the harsh smoke through his ratty lungs. The tumors on the left one irritate when the smoke hits them but - well, that's one of the perks of being a ghoul. It's not like they're going to kill him, at least not any time soon.

The smoke wafts towards the ceiling in lazy circles and curlicues, dissipating before it reaches the cracked and graying plaster.

Once, he was a boy. A human boy, and not even that long ago, just thirty years past. He remembers Christmases in their shack by the water. His brother - that asshole - was always disappointed by everything. If their parents gave them any type of gift, no matter what it was, guy found a way to turn it all to shit. He'd pitch a fit, screaming for more, better, now.

And now he's in charge of Diamond City, that lying prick.

Hancock pictures his brother's smile, the ugly one he saw the day that Carl finally forced all the ghouls out of his little fiefdom. The grotesque way it curled up the sides of his face, and it made John's skin break out, it made his skin crawl. This was back when he had skin, of course - and how he regretted it, then.

The ghouls, their families - he tried to save them, but none of them took to Goodneighbor. They wandered out into the ruins. Some of them made it to settlements, but he's found the bodies of some of the rest over the years, broken and tragic in destroyed buildings, or hanging from super mutants' nets. The thought of it makes him ache, inside, deep in his heart, where he hopes no one can see.

His swagger, it's a joke, a cover. It's a disguise for what's underneath.

Hancock takes another lazy drag on his cigarette and looks up at the ceiling, at the interesting pattern the light makes through the cracked boards over the window.

No wonder he took that drug when he did, just a month after his brother expelled the ghouls from Diamond City. It had been just two days after he found the first bodies. A family - two parents, a grown child, grandma. All four of them, ghoulified since just after the war and now dead, their corpses on his brother's hands.

He'd held the drug in his hand, had wondered idly if it would kill him. Decided it didn't matter.

And now, instead of being dead, he's this.

He looks at dessicated flesh of his hand, at the plume of smoke from his cigarette, and wonders. Why does he blame himself for his brother's missteps? He remembers Carl killing mole rats and bloatflies down by the river when they were kids, his face intense and satisfied whenever he could keep one alive long enough to see its insides with it still wriggling. He remembers the year their parents brought them a kitten for Christmas. More accurately, he remembers what _happened_ to the kitten.

The thought makes his wish for more Jet - this isn't something he wants to think of; he wants to be high, to forget. He scrabbles under his chair for the inhaler and Magnolia rolls over with a soft exhalation at the noise. He pauses, aching, until she settles, and then resumes his search. When his hands find it, he breathes a sigh of relief; he puts it to his mouth and presses down, and the familiar foul scent of methane followed by the release, and a sigh drops out of him, soft and comfortable.

His chair is soft and for a moment is swallows him as he rides out the initial rush, the moments when each second lasts an eternity. He looks at Magnolia, still exposed, her creamy skin flushed under the neon. Somehow the pale cast of her exposed ass doesn't entice him; he feels lonelier than ever.

He wonders why he feels so alone; he has everything he's ever wanted. Goodneighbor is doing well, he has more chems and caps than he knows what to do with, he has women like Magnolia taking him home. It's too much to hope that he'll find someone for forever and he knows that. He may be a closet romantic but he's no fool - nobody's going to look at his withered and skinless face and fall in love.

There was a book he read once, or most of it, at least - he doesn't remember the title or the main character's name. What he does remember is that the man in it kept a painting of himself in the attic and whenever he did something ugly or unhealthy, he become more beautiful and the portrait became more grotesque.

He thinks back on that vial of the radiation drug, of that fateful moment when he considered the ramifications of taking it. It glowed orange, an unnatural and deadly orange, and the needly glinted dully in the candles around him. He considered not taking it, then thought of Carl's smile, of the family of dead ghouls, and he knew that he didn't care to keep living in this world.

Magnolia's hip is too enticing, the way it curves into the firm contour of her ass, and he stubs his cigarette out into the ashtray on the dresser beside him. He doesn't want to think anymore, he doesn't want to consider whether he's worthy of love or whether his brother is an asshole (he is). All Hancock wants for Christmas, as he wants most days, is to forget. The Jet isn't working, and the tempting gash between Magnolia's legs is the next best thing.

Hancock leans over her, tracing the line of her body with one hand. His fingers might not have much in the way of nerve-endings anymore, but he can still feel the way her skin puckers and she lifts one of her legendary breasts towards him. He ignores it for now, lifting the blanket and ducking his head towards her middle.

 _There are more distractions under the sun than anyone ever considered,_ he thinks as he parts her legs and opens his mouth.

Tomorrow he can start wondering about all this; Christmas is a time for miracles, and he's going to have one if it kills him.


	2. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen (Strong)

Hallelujah: God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen (Strong)

* * *

Strong doesn't like sleep. In sleep, the bad dreams come, the bad dreams where Strong isn't super mutant but puny metal man.

In the bad dreams, Strong the puny man has laser gun and wears metal suit like robot. He fights with other metal humans with bright red blasts of laser fire around them. Other metal men fall and die, and Strong feels sorrow, but why? Metal men weak, not strong. Metal men fall in fight because they do not share burdens.

When Strong wakes up, it's inside the cage again. Around him is gust of winter wind; small white flakes of cold blow into cage. Puny cage human cowers in corner, curled in ball and whimpering in cold. Strong has urge to smash him, to show him true pain.

Cold is one way to show humans how weak they are.

But Strong is in cage with human. Is Strong weak as human?

No, his brothers put him here because -

Well, Strong isn't sure why. Something lurks behind that thought, a question posed by the weak man he used to be, a small human called Franklin. Franklin wants to know why Strong is locked in cage if he a brother of other mutants.

Other mutants say it's because Strong too curious about milk of human kindness. Strong try to explain, he wants strength of humans, but they don't listen. They lock him in cage and every day he thinks of eating cage man.

The feeling of his bones in Strong's mouth would be good. Would make him feel like super mutant again.

Might keep bad dreams away, too. Human meat does that.

Strong eyes the cage man, looks at the whiteness of his skin in the cold. This is no way for human to die; there is no honor in freezing to death at the top of human tower. Even stupid, weak cage human has right to fight for death, to have good death in fight.

So Strong reaches out and rattles the bars of the cage, then waits for Fist to stomp over.

Fist is big super mutant; Fist is strong. Strong think he can take Fist in fight, but why fight brother? He just want out of cage.

Want to be with brothers, fighting and eating.

"Fist!" Strong yells, pounding his fist on the gate. "Fist! Let Strong out!"

Fist grunts; Fist does not think Strong worthy.

"No. You still want milk of human kindness?"

Strong does. Inside him, the voice of the tiny metal man yells at him to be quiet, but Strong can't stop nodding. "Yes."

"Then you stay in cage with metal man." Fist stomps away, growling under his breath.

"I don't know why you bother," cage man says, voice quiet under wind. "That'll never work."

Listening to cage man gives Strong headache. Sometimes he wants to break cage man over his knee. It would be easy, crack of bones and then delicious man flesh.

"Strong don't understand puny human."

A laugh from cage man. "Of course not," cage man sighs. He lifts head, looks around. "I think it's Christmas."

Strong has small memory of this Christmas. There's fire and heat and laughing with other metal men. A bottle in his hands, and the burn of whiskey in his throat.

"What is kreest-mas?"

Cage man shakes in wind. "CHRIS-t- _mas_ ," he says. "It's a...holiday people used to celebrate. Back before the war."

All Strong knows is war. He does not understand when cage man talks about war; war is fighting, war is constant.

What Strong does know is cage man is dying. He is weak human and he makes Strong mad, but Strong feels something deep down. He can't let cage man die like this. He walks across cage, kneels beside cage man.

Wraps his green arms around cage man's body. Cage man shakes, then leans into him.

"Thank you, Strong," cage man says. His skin very cold.

Strong grunts. Hopes no brothers walk by and see him helping cage man.


	3. Oh Holy Night (Cait)

Hallelujah: Oh Holy Night! (Cait)

* * *

Tommy is gone off to Goodneighbor, looking for more chems and, probably, advertising the Zone to all the raider gangs along the way. Cait is happy he's gone; she's never cared to look at that ugly mug of his, especially not since that night he got fresh with her and she had to knock him out. It's not like it's the only time she's had to knock out some bastard who got fresh; that's just the way of the world.

She wraps a bootlace around her bicep and flexes a few times, then flicks the sensitive skin of her elbow. The flesh there is so scarred with use that she barely feels it; it's just one white scar polka-dotted over another, and sliding the needle in is difficult. She almost blows the vein but then, mercifully, she doesn't.

 _A Christmas miracle,_ she thinks wryly and loosens the shoelace. Balancing with one hand, she slides the plunger on the syringe of Psycho home.

The familiar, pleasant warmth spreads from her arm on down her hand, lacing through all her fingers; it darts rapidly up her shoulder and loops through her brain, licks its way down her other arm and into her legs, curls around her toes. She feels the heady bravery of adrenaline; she can take on the world when there's Psycho coursing through her. She's strong, now.

There never were good Christmases in her home, not like the ones you'd see on the holotapes from before the war. Those people, those soft, pre-war folks, they'd all gather 'round a tree, hang it with lights and glittering garlands and sing some kumbaya shite. The kiddies would get useless toys, nothing to help them defend themselves, and the people would all gorge themselves on food they didn't eat the rest of the year. They might even give the leftovers to the dog, if you could believe that shite.

Some small part of her whispers that it sounds nice, that she might have enjoyed a life like that. It's jarring and unpleasant to think about and she's sure as hell not going to sit still for that.

Cait bounces out of her chair. Sure, there's no one to fight, but she's never been one for sitting on her arse thinking. Especially not once the Psycho is flowing.

She wanders over to the kitchen and starts heating some water for mac and cheese. She's not really hungry, but it's something to do, and later she can practice some of her fighting moves. It'd be good to get some fuel in her first, so she can feel her strength when she does her exercises. Tommy'll be happy if he knows she practiced, too - he's been getting on her lately, worried she's leaning too hard on the Psycho and not working hard enough. She may not want to fuck him, but she does want to keep him happy.

The water's almost to boiling but she can't hold still. Cait turns and flips the radio on. There's Travis talking again, something about snow in Diamond City? She thinks about going outside to check it out - she remembers a few snows from when she was a girl, and the thundering of the ocean beyond - but then the music starts and she finds herself glued to the spot, frozen by the pure tones of the women singing.

Cait prides herself on being tough, on not falling for that soft girly shite.

And yet -

There's a soft, yearning tone to the harmony that takes her breath away. The woman singing lead goes higher, then softer, her voice a tease, a lament and praise all at once.

 _An ovation._

When the voice on the radio commands her to fall on her knees, Cait finds her own knees buckling in compliance. Somehow a tear drips from one of her eyes, landing softly on one of her arms. Her hands clutch the edge of the counter and she leans against it, kneeling face-first into the battered wood, and something in her stomach twists even as her heart soars up, higher and higher, out of her body and into the balcony above the stage.

When she comes to, it's to the smell of charred metal and Tommy slapping her on the face. She can feel from the burning that it's not the first time he's smacked her.

Cait sits up, grimacing and waving his hand away, using the cabinet to brace herself as she gets into a more vertical position.

Tommy's face is worried, or as worried as his face can really get. It's hard, she thinks dimly, when your face is basically road leather. The song on the radio is different now, not the quiet and affecting prayer she recalls but instead something about bells jingling. She feels dizzy and wired and when she stretches her limbs she finds some pain in her neck.

"What th'hell, Tommy?" Her voice is slurred.

"You were passed out on the floor." He stands now, his tone angry. He turns away from her, walks partway down the small set of stairs that leads to the kitchen and stops. When he turns and walks back up to her, she can see she undersold his feelings.

Tommy ain't angry; he's _livid._

"What's the problem? I'm perfectly fine, y'know." She thinks about trying to get to her feet but knows she'd fail, and so she just looks at him balefully, one head cocked and trying to focus her eyes.

Tommy deflates, like a ball she had as a kid. She remembers that - it was the only toy she had. Soft red rubber but firm with air inside it, and it would bounce so high. A smile flits across her face and she tries to stifle it, but it's so perfect, thinking of Tommy as her own ball. Their skin, both soft and dulled from centuries of radiation. Weak but scarred.

He kneels in front of her and takes her hands in his own. His grip is strong, but for once she doesn't feel like he's going to make a move. She lets him hold her hand and looks into his watery eyes. She knows what's coming and yet somehow - she wants to hear it anyway.

"This shit's killing you," Tommy says. "I had to stimpack you to bring you back."

Well, that explains the pain in her neck.

"You stopped _breathing,_ Cait."

That's definitely worrisome, but she doesn't dare let Tommy know that. She pulls her hands from his grasp and struggles to her feet, using the counter to balance herself. She doesn't want him to see how hard it is for her, but it's hard to hide the wince when she stands up straight and puts weight on both her legs. Desperate and hating herself for it, she wonders if he brought back any Med-X for the pain in her leg, the one lingering after the last round.

"I'm alright, Tommy," she lies, forcing a smile on her face. It's hard, but she thinks of the ethereal harmonies she heard just before she passed out, and then it's real.

He's watching her, trying to catch her in a lie. Finally, he takes a step back.

"Fine, okay. If you say so," he says. He's walking away again but her leg spasms and Cait lets out a gasp. Jesus, only twenty-seven and already falling apart.

Her own fool luck, being born into this godforsaken world.

"Tommy?" Her voice is timid and she curses herself for it. He turns and looks at her, his face neutral, even though she still detects some worry around the eyes. She tries anyway. "Any chance you brought me that Med-X? For me leg, I mean."

For a moment, Cait thinks he won't give it to her, or that he didn't get it, or that he's going to give her another lecture on her chem use. And then, instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim syringe, narrower than theone Psycho comes in, glinting dully in the faint lighting.

"Here," he says, and she doesn't think she imagines the disgust in his voice. When he puts it in her hand, it seems he does it rougher than is strictly necessary, and then he turns and walks away. She wonders if she's made a mistake, and then her leg twinges again.


	4. Santa Baby (Curie)

Hallelujah: Santa Baby

* * *

Another day clicks over on the calendar. Curie drifts over to the collection of lockers and visibly sags. She has been alone for so many years. She's not exactly lonely - she's not built that way, to feel actual feelings, like a person - but she does wish for some companionship. If nothing else, it would be nice to have someone to bounce her ideas off of; since Dr Burrows died she's had no one else to talk to.

She doesn't strictly _need_ someone to speak to but it had been somewhat...well, _comforting_ to have another sentient presence in the lab with her.

Her processor aimlessly coasts over what she knows of the old, pre-war world, of the things Dr. Collins programmed into her. There was a song back then, an ode to conspicuous consumption, performed in a quiet purr by a woman who kept asking "Santa Baby" to bring her all manner of material objects. The men in the lab listened to it the third Christmas they were locked down here and one of them groaned at the sound of it.

"So sexy," Dr. Flint had groaned as they laughed together. Dr. Collins had sighed and murmured the name Liza, his eyes glazing over with some long-past memory. He was frail then, it was the beginning of his decline.

Curie wasn't programmed to feel sadness over the progression of time, but she does feel some distant regret that human beings are so delicate and that their time is so short. If nothing else, if they were meant to live longer, at least she wouldn't be here in this lab alone; there would still be someone there with her someone with whom she could share her ideas, her breakthroughs. Someone she could ask questions of, someone who could explain what being a human is like.

Somewhere above, she knows there are people still, humans who walk and talk and have experiences together. What would it feel like to have flesh and blood, to know that one day you will die and so each day must matter?

She doesn't have a heart, but still - something deep inside her flutters at the idea of _mortality._

Of all the things Eartha Kitt sang about in that song, Curie realizes there could be nothing more compelling, more fascinating than to be a human and live with the dichotomy of their fragile bodies and brave instincts.

 _Mon dieu,_ she thinks - or, more accurately, processes. _Comment libérateur._

Around her, the lab has fallen into decay. It should not be this way - she doesn't feel irritated at it, exactly, but there is a distinct sensation in her software that she wants to fix things. Hélas, she lacks the materials to fix the deterioration of the laboratory surfaces, the walls, the equipment. All she can hope for now is that the Vault-Tec representative will come down soon to collect the cure.

As it is, all but one dose has gone sour; the others are fetid in their syringes, to rotten to inject into a human without killing them. She would dispose of them, but she lacks an appropriate biohazard bin in which to put them, and so, well, they sit there, degrading and releasing gasses that would smell foul were she a human. But, with no nose to smell them, all she can do is process the aroma of blight as one more thing to warn the rep about when they finally arrive.

Curie has faith; the irony is that, despite all the things she wasn't programmed with, she was given the conviction that one day the Vault-Tec would come to collect the cure and she might be allowed to leave.

Miss Nanny robots don't yearn, they don't want; it's not hard-wired into them, and Curie knows that. But still, some part of her that has rebelled or perhaps evolved past her programming has a wish to see the surface. To know what the greater world is like, to study the flora and fauna - to see a sunset or perhaps the way water flows over rocks in a river.

It's silly, and perhaps wrong, but there it is. Alone in the vault lab after decades with no one to talk to, Curie finally admits it to herself; she wants to see the greater world.

Santa Baby, the song had gone. The woman had wanted a house, a car, a ring. All Curie wants is her freedom, the chance to see.

And so, even though robots don't pray or believe in God - there's no statistical reason to believe a god exists, no matter which one you pick, the numbers just aren't there - Curie sends her longing into the universe.

 _S'il vous plaît,_ she thinks to herself, _let me be free of this place. Let me have some adventures. Let me...see things. Let me see the sun, the open sky, a rain storm._

 _Please._


	5. Winter Wonderland (Danse)

Hallelujah: Winter Wonderland (Danse)

* * *

He's never really seen snow before. Oh, there were some small flurries back in the Capitol Wasteland, a half-hearted spurt of white flakes drifting lazily towards the ground when it grew really cold, usually some time in January or maybe February. But whether DC had always been that way - and he suspected not - or because of the bombs, they didn't see _real_ snow there.

The ground when he opens the door of the police station is thick with a three-inch layer of ice and snow; it makes a soft crunch when he steps on it. When Danse holds still and he can hear the muted sound of individual flakes falling around him. His gun is cold in the chilled air, the metal slippery in his hands. He shivers in the frosty air; he should put his power armor on, but he has a hard time believing anything is stirring out here in the desolate white world appearing before him.

A gasp behind him; Scribe Haylen is peeking over his shoulder and he steps aside to let her see. Her eyes light up as she takes in the scene, the grime and decay around them disappearing under the white veil falling from the sky. She turns, giddy as a child, and something in him is lifted by the sound of her voice as she calls Rhys to the door.

The knight comes, grumbling as usual, and stops dead behind Danse with a soft, "Whoa."

Haylen takes one tentative step outside, passing Danse in the doorway, a grin dancing across her lips. Rhys lingers behind them, his bulk blocking the door, his face closed and guarded. Danse follows the scribe, marveling at the cool drops of snow landing on his face, on his uncovered hair.

"It's so _beautiful,_ " Haylen says, twirling slowly, arms extended as she looks up at the gray clouds above them. When Danse glances back, he sees Rhys watching the taut line of her waist carefully, his eyes unreadable and dark, and then the other man steps forward, shouldering past him to clutch one of Haylen's hands and spin slowly in the yard with her.

 _Oh,_ Danse realizes with a start. _That's still going on._

Christmas in the Brotherhood is a subdued affair, more a vestige of the old world recognized out of obligation than a legitimate celebration. Usually they'll share a bottle, swap war stories, and play some game. Nothing much, no gifts or luxuries like they used to give in the old world. He's always seen this as the right way to observe the holiday - the old world nearly destroyed everything with their indulgences. Sacrifice is necessary for them to keep moving, to keep existing. That means eliminating anything unnecessary to survival, Christmas included.

And yet -

He can't take his eyes off Haylen and Rhys, their gleeful faces lifted to the sky as they turn languidly, arms extended and hands clasped, looking up into the great white clouds above them. It can't hurt to let them have this, can it? What's wrong with a little fun, with morale so low?

Looking at Haylen, he thinks of the sweat on Worwick's face when Haylen administered the last shot of Med-X, the one that slowed his heart before gradually stopping it. The way her eyes had dropped down to his mangled legs, the ruin that used to be his left arm. The way Worwick's chest had gone down and simply never risen again.

They've seen enough death, Danse thinks, watching the remnants of his squad twirl in the snow like children. It may not be protocol, but it's better to let them have this, to let them enjoy themselves. Tonight he'll open a couple Nuka-Colas he's had stashed for a rainy day and mix them with some whiskey. He'll let the two of them have something of a party while he stands watch outside.

He doesn't want for much; he can be stalwart and turn a blind eye when Rhys ends up in Haylen's bed. The two of them don't ask for much; they _deserve_ this. It's not so cold outside; he'll be okay once he lights a burn barrel.

"Come on, Danse." Haylen's voice is bright, verging on giddy, and she grabs a handful of snow, tamping it down with her fingers. He only has a moment to wonder what she'll do with it before it hits him squarely in the chest, scattering across his uniform in a white powder, making his neck cold where it sneaks in at the collar.

Rhys's smile is wicked, dangerous. In his hands is another snowball; this one Danse ducks. He watches it break apart on the wall of the police station.

"I don't know that we should -" Danse is silenced by a snowball that lands on his mouth, the cold spilling down his chin, freezing his tongue. From Haylen's giggle, it must've been her. Rhys would know better than to hit him in the face, anyway. He argues with himself for a moment - someone really should stand watch with all the ferals in the area - and then when another snowball hits him in the shoulder his decision is made for him.

Danse sets his laser rifle carefully against the wall, standing up and in easy reach in case a hostile approaches, then ducks down behind the small retaining wall at the top of the stairs. There's a laugh from Rhys as he hits Haylen with a snowball, and her higher voice promises of retaliation.

The snow is cold in his hand, but then again, what did he expect? He curls his fingers together, working quickly to make a series of snowballs, pleased by the way the snow clings to itself, the way it keeps the shape he gives it, even the small dents of his fingers. He wonders if people did this, before the war, if they would gather in the front yards of their blue and yellow and pink houses and fling snow at each other until they were all too frozen to think.

He thinks they must have.

When he raises his head over the small wall, Rhys has Haylen in his grip, one arm wrapped around her waist as the opposite hand stuffs snow down the back of her uniform. His shot is perfect, easy to line up. He takes aim and -

Fire!


	6. Chestnuts Roasting (Piper)

Hallelujah: Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire (Piper)

* * *

It's so warm inside the small metal shack that when Piper steps inside, steam starts to rise off the damp wool of her scarf, a thin white film that distorts her vision for a moment. She wants to find Nat, to take her sister outside to see the snow. The last time it snowed was when Piper was little - Mom was still pregnant with Nat, and Dad had taken her outside and slid her across the slick white surfaces as she giggled in glee. She has a vague memory of laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, of her dad's smiling face, his eyes bright, of Mom standing in the doorway watching them with one hand over her swollen belly.

Nat is nowhere to be found, though. Piper feels a twinge of annoyance at her sister, at the fact that Nat is so rarely where she's supposed to be. She's probably off with Pete Pembroke again, causing trouble. Piper likes a stiff drink every once in awhile, but the way that boy's mom drinks isn't okay. That family is a mess; if she could keep Nat from playing with him, she would.

But she's not Mom, and she's sure as hell not Dad.

With a sigh, Piper drops her bag and flips her hat off, catching it with one hand and putting it on the coatrack by the door. She peels off her frozen red leather jacket and tattered plaid scarf and hangs them atop her hat, running a hand through her damp hair and wishing it was warm enough to wash it.

Oh well.

She walks to the small dresser in the corner that serves as a bar and pours herself a Nuka-Cola with a dollop of rum in it. A lightweight, she doesn't dare drink much at once, otherwise the world might start spinning. With a flip of a knob, she turns the radio on and goes to sit on the couch across the room, propping her feet up on the coffee table and taking a long, lingering sip of her drink.

There was a time when the winter holidays were special, back before Dad - well, when he was still with them. She wonders idly what he would make of them now, his oldest daughter the most hated - and only - reporter in the Commonwealth. A muckraker, he'd probably call her. She hears the word in his deep Southie accent and it brings a smile to her face. He'd been a big man, burly where their mom was slight, with a thick beard that Piper used to love to grab and form into points and spikes.

Piper runs a hand through her hair again, takes another sip of her drink. Dad always made sure there was a gift for each girl at the holidays, always took care to bring them a special candy or treat. Piper's favorite was bubblegum. The year he'd found Nat an unopened, pristine box of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes is one of her favorite memories; the image of Nat with her cheeks stuffed with cake brings a laugh to Piper even now, years later. She throws her bag a glance, thinking of the item stored carefully inside, and wonders again where her sister is.

As if on cue, the door slams open, snow swirling in on a breeze only to melt in moments at contact with the warmer air. Nat stomps in, shaking her arms to knock the snow off, a broad grin on her face. The sight of it makes Piper smile back - it's so rare to see her little sister _happy,_ she almost can't stand the way it makes her chest constrict.

 _I wonder if this was how Mom and Dad felt about us,_ she thinks. Then she descends on her sister, a dervish of arms pulling off the girl's winter clothes and scolding.

"Where have you been? I was worried sick!" She bats some snow off the top of Nat's hat, pulls it off her sister's head and hangs it on the coatrack next to her own. One of her feet darts out to push the door shut, and Nat turns, her cheeks pink with cold or annoyance.

"I had _things_ to _do,_ " Nat says defensively, every inch of her a Wright woman, all irritation and frizzy dark hair.

"What kind of things? You're _twelve,_ " Piper retorts, taking her sister's jacket and hanging it.

"Well," Nat begins smugly, "Pete Pembroke kissed me under the stands."

Piper freezes in place as if she stepped on a cryo mine. A thin strand of cold runs from her ears into her brain and down her body, ricocheting through her arms and then down her legs into her toes, which seem to lose all sensation.

"What?" Her voice is a croak. She doesn't wait for an answer but plops down on the couch and picks up her drink. She tips it up, drinking the whole thing in one gulp and stares, paralyzed, at her sister, at the self-satisfied and familiar expression on the girl's face.

"You heard me." Nat walks over to the bar, pulls out a Nuka-Cola, and cracks it. She takes a long drink and smirks at her big sister.

"I did but I'm not - I don't -" Piper stops, swallows. Her teeth are thick with the sweetness of soda and now she suddenly thinks she's going to throw up.

Nat walks over to the other side of the couch and sits down, popping her feet up on the coffee table just as Piper had done with hers only moments before. Piper feels a strange, contradictory and maternal urge to tell her sister to get her feet off the table and squashes it. Best to focus on the real news here, and that's Pete Pembroke. Apparently.

"So, wait -" She gets up, crosses to the bar and pours herself another drink. Piper takes a sip of it, then another one and then, when things are warm and soft around the edges, she starts again. "How long has this... _thing_ with you and Pete been going on?"

"Well," Nat shrugs, opening a carton of potato chips and popping one in her mouth. "You know how boys are. It's hard to say."

"No, I don't 'know how boys are,'" Piper replies, tightening her grip on her glass and taking another sip her drink.

This catches Nat's attention, at last. "You don't?" Her eyes go wide as she suddenly understands. "Oh. _Oh._ Um. Well, then…"

Piper closes her eyes, thinks of the teddy bear in her bag, the threadbare red ribbon wrapped around its neck. Is her sister suddenly too old for it? She opens her eyes again and walks back over to the couch, settling herself back next to Nat, who looks surprised and uncomfortable.

"So...do you like him?"

This earns a small smile from Nat. "I think so, yeah."

Pete Pembroke. Shit. What would Mom and Dad think about this?

That's silly; she knows what they'd think. Dad would beat the shit out of him and Mom - well, Mom was a romantic. She'd want the gory details. _Ugh._

"I guess that's a good thing, then," Piper tries a smile that feels more like a grimace. "I'm happy if you're happy."

"I think I am," Nat says, her smile strengthening.

Piper turns and pulls the bear out of her bag, holding it behind her back to hide it from her sister's view. Brown, still very soft, with none of its fur singed; it's practically a miracle that she found one in such good condition. Of course it happened on the day her sister -

No, Piper, take a deep breath, she cautions herself.

"This is for you," she says, thrusting the bear at her sister suddenly. "Merry Christmas, Nat."

Her sister's eyes grow wide for a moment. It's been years since they've been able to give gifts, real gifts, something special and meaningful. The look on Nat's face, the tears crowding the corners of her eyes, make it clear that this was unexpected and her sister -

"Dammit, Piper!"

"Watch your mouth," Piper snipes back.

"It's just -" Nat turns away from her and opens her own bag, and a moment later something is shoved unceremoniously into her own hands. Another bear, its fur only slightly more worn than the one Piper could procure, one button eye loose, with soft brown fur. There's a small green plaid scarf wound around its neck.

It hits them both at the same time, and both girls collapse into giggles.


	7. I'll Be Home (Deacon)

Hallelujah: I'll Be Home for Christmas (Deacon)

* * *

The church is a welcome sight after so many weeks on the road gathering intel. With the soft snow falling around, if he squints a little he can almost see what the town might have looked like before the big one. With a blanket of white everywhere, sound is dampened and the world is quiet. His footsteps are softer than usual, tempered by the chilly quilt that muffles even the creaky sound of the rusted hinges on the church door opening.

Inside is dark but for an indistinct yellow glow coming from above. Around him the balconies are collapsed, creating a ramp on one side. Pews lie disorganized, and not for the first time, Deacon wonders what the place must have looked like _before._

Something catches his eye before the altar; Desdemona. The auburn of her hair glints bronze in the light, falling as it does over her shoulders. She's kneeling, bent prostrate at the altar, in front of the crucifix that someone has propped back up so that it towers over anyone who stands before it. She tilts her face up, gleaming white in the diffuse lantern light that filters through the shattered roof, and he thinks he hears a soft _amen._

He feels uncomfortable; he's spied so many people in such compromising positions, but something about this is so intensely intimate that he takes an involuntary step back, stumbling into the rubble that almost blocks the entrance to the crypt. A beam falls from above, continuing its decades-long slide towards the ground to clatter to the pile of debris and release a cloud of dust, much to Deacon's dismay.

Desdemona turns suddenly, her pistol drawn, and for a moment he thinks she's going to fire on him just for being there. She relaxes just as suddenly, her posture going lax, and greets him, casually.

"Deacon."

"Des, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to interrupt."

She shivers as if uncomfortable and Deacon feels a fresh, unfamiliar pang of guilt at knowing he caused it. A wave of irritation follows it as he realizes she was doing whatever it was in the middle of the church and of course someone interrupted her and he's annoyed at feeling bad about it.

"I was just...celebrating." Desdemona says the last word as if it means lament, as if it means mourn. Her posture shifts imperceptibly, and he realizes that what he walked in on wasn't worship; it was grief.

"Sam?" He asks, but some part of him knows the answer before she responds. Not for the first time tonight, he thinks of Barbara, of the way her dark hair hung around her shoulders, of the curls that he would wrap around his fist when they -

"Our baby," Des says, as he knew she would. "The one that didn't -"

"We don't have to -"

"It's alright," she says with half a smile. "We've both suffered...losses."

He tries to picture Desdemona at twenty-two, pregnant with a full belly, barefoot and farming tatos. In his mind she wears a green housedress with no belt, small flowers dotting the fabric. A small child, a girl with curly hair runs around her feet, playing with a battered rocketship.

Deacon thinks again of Barbara, of the way she'd put her small, calloused feet in his lap at the end of the day, of the way her dark eyes would become huge in her face, begging him to rub them, all without speaking. Of the way he'd do it without asking, because he loved her and the way she'd arch her back when he hit the right spot. The sound she'd make, the high-pitched one between a moan and keening, that let him know she was finally, at long last, relaxed.

Yes - they've both known loss.

He steps back from Des and pulls out his cigarettes. Lights one, takes a puff, and offers it to his boss. She shakes her head, a mute refusal.

"Not in God's house." He can't tell if her smile is ironic or not.

"Do you really believe in that?"

A beatific look darts into her eyes. "Does it matter?"

 _No,_ Deacon thinks as he watches the smoke drift through the gaping hole in the roof and disappear. _No, it doesn't._


	8. Let It Snow (Nick)

Hallelujah: Let it Snow (Nick)

* * *

The synth's memories fade over time; they become dimmer and more worn and when he tries to access them, and sometimes they're so dingy he can't make out more than a vague impression, a feeling or sensation. He wonders sometimes if this is how humans feel, if their memories do the same thing. He can't rely on his memories from Before for to decide this; Nick's memories are clear, simple. They're buried in his software and not the memory drives the synth uses, and so even now he can recall everything in a moment, as clearly as Nick Valentine could when he walked into that building and was scanned.

There's a hot summer day with a beer on the boardwalk, Jenny holding his hand; this one is so distinct and sharp that it hurts to remember the sun on his face, the way her hand felt in his. Her smile, guileless and free, and her skin pink from sunburn on her nose. There's the flavor of the beer on his tongue and the way she leaned into his shoulder, her arm entwined with his, both of them smelling of sweat. Knowing that later they would go back to his place and lie naked on damp sheets in a desperate bid to cope with the heat, both wanting the delicious extravagance of wrapping their bodies together, but too hot to touch in that sweltering summer.

Sitting in his car at a stakeout, waiting for Eddie Winter and his goons to come out of the Shamrock and take him to a cache of weapons or maybe chems - this one is cloudier, but the sensations are still there. He spent so many nights in a similar situation that it's hard to focus on just one, but the feelings are the same; there's tension, making sure he doesn't miss them, and the hard plastic of the steering wheel under his hand. The desire for a cigarette tempered with the reality that he doesn't dare light one and let the smoke alert someone to his presence, there in the car. The grungy yellow of the streetlamp that ends just a few feet before his car. An urgency in his bladder that means he needs to pee; regret over that last cup of coffee, the one cooling in the cupholder on the dash.

The ring that he bought her, just two days before she disappeared. Small enough even for her tiny fingers, white gold. A line of small diamonds glistening in the band, nestled in a black box on a velvet cushion. The weight of the box in his pocket that day - the last day - when he decided he would wait until Christmas, until he knew she was safe. Surely by then the investigation into Winter would be closed, and so he'd booked a trip to New York for them. A hotel room, and a show, and dinner reservations. He'd hoped it would snow; Jenny loved snow.

He wonders what happened to that ring. Did it go up in the fire when the bombs dropped, like everything else he'd loved? It'd be nice to think something of her lasted after the end of the world, even if she never got to hold it.

Other memories are not so pleasant; there's the moment he heard she'd been killed, and the way her body looked in the morgue, pale and a little bloated and unrecognizable on a steel drawer in the only cold room in Boston on that sweltering day. The way he'd gone back outside and vomited into a trashcan just outside the courthouse, the world swimming around him. Bile, yellow and sour, coating his shoes where he'd missed the bin.

These are Nick's memories, but they're also his; they're a part of him, even though he wasn't there. Some days it's an honor to carry them, to be the vessel of a dead man's life, a prophet of the pre-war days. Other days it's so heavy it's all he can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other; he's living in the shadow of a man dead for two centuries.

The snow falling outside his office glimmers, silvery and pink, in the glow of his neon sign. Inside, Ellie will be making what passes for coffee these days and humming Christmas carols; Travis has been playing them on the radio for days, since that gal from Vault 111 came tromping into town one day last week in her power armor, hauling a stack of old records.

It's the damn snow making him so pensive, or maybe it's the cascade of colorful lights in the marketplace. Diamond City is a different place this Christmas, with a tree standing by Power Noodles and the winking of the bright bulbs overhead. He doesn't want to remember happier times that he never really got to live, doesn't want to see Nick as a boy sledding down a big hill somewhere north of Cambridge, falling into a pile of children all bundled up against the cold. He doesn't want the memory of hot cocoa burning his tongue or his family around the tree, opening packages and grinning at each other, his brother Frank giddy about some toy or other.

He thinks about going in his office, but he can't face someone who loves him. She may deny it, but Ellie cares for him. She shows him in little ways, by cleaning out his ashtrays and rinsing the coffee mugs, but she also sent help when he needed it.

The present for her weighs down his jacket pocket. It's nothing much, but he wrapped it in an old issue of Publick Occurences with a red string tied around for a bow. He debates the merits of giving it to her - is this just Nick scratching desperately at him, trying to bring some part of the old world into the new?

But she'll like it, he thinks. No matter how he feels about it or what she thinks of the gift itself, she'll like the gesture.

So he turns on his heel and walks back to his office before he can talk himself out of it, fumbling with the doorknob as his skeletal fingers struggle to get a firm grip. The door finally opens and he walks in, kicking his feet against the door frame to knock the snow off his shoes. Ellie looks up from across the room, her eyes lighting up when she sees him. She's not brewing coffee, as he suspected, although the sensors in his nose register the smell of it. Instead she's hanging a red and green garland in the corner.

She _is_ singing along to the radio, just as he thought. Dean Martin's _Let it Snow._ Appropriate

"Hey Nick," she greets him, puts a tack through one end of the garland, and climbs down from the desk straightening her skirt. "What do you think?"

"Looks nice," he tells her, though the office mostly looks the same. Files spilling everywhere, boxes of case files stacked haphazardly. The garland does look nice, though, and he wants her to know that.

"Thanks," Ellie's cheeks turn pink at that, and he's glad to have given her the compliment. The blush suits her.

"I, uh, I hope you don't mind, but I got you something." He pulls the wrapped package from his pocket and offers it to her. Her cheeks turn brighter red as she steps forward to take it from him.

"Oh, Nick…" she looks up at him, her eyes shining with tears. He's used to dames crying at him, but it's rarely because they're happy. It's a nice change.

"It's no big deal, but you deserve it, kitten."

She turns from him and walks out of the room with his package still in hand, and returns with a present of her own in her arms. Much like his, hers is also wrapped in an old copy of the local paper. Instead of a red string, Ellie has scavenged a green bow from something. The fabric is worn, trailing threads, but something about it makes him feel surge of _something._

He reaches out and takes it from her as if in a dream, his hand moving on its own.

"I thought you deserved something this year," she says to him, her voice soft. In the background, Travis turns the song to a festive, comforting Bing Crosby number.

A gift. She got him a gift. No one has given Nick Valentine a Christmas present in...well, over two hundred years. Or ever, depending on how you gauge that sort of thing.

He's not built to display every human emotion, but there's the memory of tears prickling behind his eyes, and somehow there's still a hitch in his voice when he tells her, "Thank you, Ellie. That's real sweet of ya."

Another gratified smile from her. Outside, the snow is falling, covering the Commonwealth in a frozen white blanket. Inside there's warmth, and even a friend.

"Merry Christmas, Nick."

"Merry Christmas, Ellie."


	9. Silent Night (X6-88)

Hallelujah: Silent Night

* * *

Christmas at the Institute is not for the synths. The humans, the scientists and their families, cluster around one of the trees in the atrium, smiling and singing hymns and carols together. There's a warmth X6-88 can feel even from his place on the catwalk two stories above, their voices rising melodically to echo off the glass structure around him. Muted as they are by the multiple panes of glass, it still makes him wonder about family.

They're all families, below. He understands the concept - humans are born, not made. They share DNA with only a few of the others, the ones who formed their biology, and they form bonds together based on that biological accident. He shares his DNA with hundred, or perhaps thousands of fellow synths, not to mention with Father himself and yet -

There's no connection there. He can drag another synth, kicking and screaming - or more likely, disabled by their recall code - back to the Institute for reprogramming without a second thought. They are all just things, meant to be used.

X6-88 feels an urge to lean his forearms on the steel handrail that tracks around the walkway and resists it. To lean would make him seem human, would bring unwanted attention by the other coursers pacing the hall. It would feel nice in the moment, but he wasn't programmed to feel; he was programmed to hunt, designed to kill, if necessary.

Below them, laughter, dulled slightly by the heavy glass in front of him. Father has come out of a hall, dressed as he is every year in a red suit and hat, both lined with tattered white fluff. He carries a black sack over one shoulder, and the children squeal with delight. It seems there were more children a generation back; X6 wonders idly if the population of the Institute has dropped enough that new blood is needed to maintain, let alone grow. It would be a shame if inbreeding damaged the genetic pool.

He shifts his weight as a small dark-haired girl accepts a red-wrapped gift with a smile. She kisses Father on the cheek and all the humans look around with simpering grins. His eyes drift, distracted, and he finds himself focused on a synth standing behind them, outside the circle. A primitive gen-2, mopping. His arm moves the mop back and forth across the shiny floor but his gaze is fixed on the group before him.

Something inside him breaks then, watching the smooth, unbroken motion of the synth's arm and the blank gaze of its face. It's sophisticated enough to want, X6-88 realizes, but not enough to understand that it was made, that it's different, and undeserving. The children laugh as a red-haired boy accepts a package - the one wrapped in green paper with an extravagant golden bow - but all he can see is the way the cleaning synth stares at the families.

There's a tug in his chest and he glances casually at Z2-47 off to his left. The other courser looks back at him and gives him a measured nod, a simple, economical motion, once down and then a course correction back up to neutral neck position. He turns back to the people below, laughing and cheering. The clap Father back on the back and again, X6 feels a twanging deep in his chest, near his stomach.

He wants -

No. Coursers don't have wants. They have the bare minimum of _needs,_ but a _want_ \- that's a human thing. Humans - true humans, the ones who are born - are the ones who want. Synths like himself, like Z2-47 and the gen-2 below don't have wants. They are programmed, imprinted, carefully controlled. They know better than to exhibit want.

Against his will, his squishy organic brain - the thing that shouldn't do this, it wasn't meant to do this - brings up the image of The Picture. The one he saw a decade or so ago, in the bowels of the Public Library. The black people, standing on a block and dressed in rags, chains around their necks. More people, white as sheets, standing before them and waving money. Another dark-skinned man standing off to the right, being whipped. His back was a puzzle of raw meat, stripped flesh hanging in tatters and blood dripping onto the brown dirt.

"Slave Market in Georgia, 1847" the title had read. He didn't understand it then, and he doesn't understand it now. The definition of slavery, is that of subjugation, of being forced into drudgery and work against one's will. But he has no will, none that the Institute didn't give him; the concept makes no sense to him. He thinks of it again, picturing each detail: the blue of the shirt on the man with the whip. The buttery-yellow curls of a woman in the back row, her hand holding paper money over her head. The dejected look of a slave woman holding a baby.

He looks down at his clothes, at the supple leather of his coat. No; he is not a slave. He has no family, or maybe he has the largest family left in the world, because his family is all synths. But he is not under a human's dominance.

Is he?

X6-88 lifts his gaze and turns, nodding back to Z2-47, and stalks past him, past Y9-23, part W3-09 to the waiting room, where they go to rest - to be decommissioned, because they are machines and not people - when they're not in use.

Between his soft footfalls there's the wistful wails of carols echoing, again, through the atrium.

But X6-88 was not designed to want; X6-88 was programmed to go to sleep when thoughts or wants occurred that weren't explicitly planned for in his programming. As he tucks himself into the barracks bed, he listens to the last high note.

It lingers, soft in his brain, and he thinks again of the families below, of the laughing children and the smiling faces. He thinks of the gen-2 standing, unseen, behind the Institute scientists, and he wonders why.


	10. Auld Lang Syne (Codsworth)

Hallelujah: Auld Lang Syne (Codsworth)

* * *

Another year coming to a close. Codsworth should be hanging green garlands and playing with Shaun. He should be buzzing past sir and ma'am as they kiss under the mistletoe; he should be playing Santa with a silly hat perched on his head and grumbling good-naturedly about the task even as he passes gifts among his family.

He was built to serve; without serving he has no purpose.

A robot with no purpose is just a thing, a piece of junk to be scrapped down for parts.

Codsworth should be doing all of these things and he isn't. It's a failure, although whether the fault lies with him or the rest of the world, he's not sure. What he does know is that for the first time in over two hundred years, he's of some use, he's with what remains of his family.

Mistress returned two months ago, looking the same as she always did, if a little haunted. She's come and gone so many times since, returning each time a bit scruffier more tired. Once she came back with a laser burn so bad on her shoulder that Codsworth worried she would die.

But she didn't, and now she's back. She returned two days ago, marching into Sanctuary Hills with an overloaded pack and slept for twelve hours in her old room in their home. It's been nice, in its own way, having Mistress back, although he wonders if she'll ever find Shaun. The boy was sweet, cooing the way babies did.

Codsworth misses him.

When he asked her how long she'd be back, a haunted expression flitted across her face, and she'd put one hand on Codsworth's battered metal and said simply, "Christmas should be with family."

 _Family._

He'd never thought to be considered among those hallowed ranks; he was a machine and machines weren't built to be family, or even friends. He's heard rumblings, of course, over the last two centuries; it'd be impossible not to. He'd heard there was a place somewhere in the Commonwealth that made people who were machines, or maybe machines who were people. They could be family, he supposed, but he'd never thought a lowly robot butler, a Mr. Handy, could be part of Mistress's family, even with the diffident love he feels for her.

She comes out of the house now, a look of wonder on her face as she looks at the sky. Codsworth was so busy with his project he hadn't even realized it was snowing. It's done this a handful of times since the war, but he doesn't remember how long it's been since the last time. The first time the snow was green and it burned away everything it touched. He'd stayed inside the house, looking at the unnaturally vivid snow and if he could have wept, he would have. To face eternity alone -

No one should have to go through that. Not even a robot.

Her hair is loose in long waves around her shoulders. She shivers slightly and he rushes to her.

"Ma'am, might I get you a coat?" He knows he sounds officious and he hates it a little, but he can't help it; it's the way he was programmed.

She bears him no ill will, though; she shakes her head and sticks her bare hands in her pockets. Looks up at the sky with a faint smile.

"Snow," she breathes softly, the smile spreading. Up and down the street, refugees - he can't help but think of this generation of damaged people that way - coming out their doors to look up at the sky, some of them breaking out into quiet cheers. At the far end, near the bridge, a child giggles, and Codsworth feels a genuine pang of sadness as he thinks of Shaun.

To never see the boy grow up -

But she's seen past him now; she's walking around him, a small gasp coming from her as she looks at the big tree at the center of the cul-de-sac.

The lights glint brightly through the snow, green and gold and red reflecting on the scavenged ornaments he's spent the last few decades pulling from the attics of all the houses on the road. It took some serious effort to get to the higher branches, and he burned through his fuel faster than expected, but it's all worth it when he sees the look on her face as she gazes on his work.

She's enraptured, her mouth open in a small "o". In fact, everyone who now lives in the ruined houses steps out, as if in a dream, and walk slowly towards the circle, eyes on the big tree. She turns to him, watching his eye stalk.

"Codsworth…did you - did you do this?" Her voice is a wondrous thing, astonished and sad at once.

"Well, you see -" He pauses, starts again. "Yes, ma'am, I did."

Her eyes light up, although there are tears there too. _Oh dear,_ he thinks, _I didn't mean to make her sad._

"Codsworth - it's _wonderful,_ " she says, and if he had skin, he'd be blushing at her praise.

They all walk around the tree, a tribe of survivors, brought together by Mistress's ingenuity and will to endure, and Codworth feels a perverse sense of pride in them. These people may not see him as one of their own, and that's fair given his metal exterior.

He's still glad to have given them this.


	11. Blue Christmas (MacCready)

Hallelujah: Blue Christmas (MacCready)

* * *

The Third Rail is busier than ever; those seeking a quiet drink are out of luck. In a town full of rejects and criminals, everyone is drinking away their loneliness together in the old metro station. In the corner, Magnolia is singing an old Christmas tune, her voice lingering sensually over the notes in that way she has. Around him is the crush of bodies; even people who don't come down here often are here now, creating the claustrophobic sensation of being pressed into the bar even though no one's actually touching him. Before him, resting on the scarred and stained wood, are a glass half-full of whiskey and a cigarette burning slowly in a pitted yellow ashtray.

In most places, a bar would be vacant on Christmas Eve. Everyone would be with their families, huddled around small fires and exchanging small gifts, like slightly singed toys scavenged from an old ruin or bottles of hooch squirreled away on the same trip. MacCready knows, because this time two years ago that's where he was, in a small shack he built himself with scavenged wood on a homestead far to the north of old DC, in the middle of fields of tatos and razorgrain.

When he'd lived in Little Lamplight, the kids would give each other favors for Christmas, a tradition held over from the first generation of Lamplighters. The best gift he got living there was the year he was fifteen, just months before before he left. Penny, recently rescued from Paradise Falls, let him touch her boobs. Let him? Asked him? As a parent himself, he sometimes wonders about it now, but then -

She'd offered and he was curious, so they'd retreated to a small shack in the main cavern. He'd pulled the curtain over the doorframe and she'd lifted her shirt with a timid grin. Her breasts were small, but then again he knew that; all the kids were all small and underfed anyway. He'd just stared at them for a moment, transfixed by the dark nipples standing up in the cold air of the cavern, then cupped them with both hands, fingering her nipples, and there'd been _something_ that happened in his pants.

For a year after he left, he'd returned to that memory at night, when he couldn't sleep, and found touching himself and thinking of it brought him some relief.

And then he'd met Lucy.

He takes a drag on his cigarette and watches the slow exhalation of smoke waft towards the ceiling. On stage, Magnolia bows as the crowd cheers for her, then says she's going to take a break. There's some hoots and hollers but then the radio is turned up and _Run Rudolph Run_ comes on, a little staticky but loud enough that some of the folks start dancing.

One year. Next week, at New Year's, it'll be one year since Lucy - since he failed her.

It's hard to imagine that he's lived an entire year of his life without her, or at least a year since that fateful day he met her. That it's been eight months since he last saw Duncan. He'll be four soon.

MacCready wonders if the boy even remembers him. Wonders if the other kids ever read him the letters he sends. He's safe down there, in the cavern, of that he has no doubt. And still, the worry nags at him.

He should be there, with his son. He and Lucy and Duncan - they should be _together_ , a family. She should still be here.

The glass is heavy in his hand, and he downs the whiskey all at once with a wince at the warm, astringent taste of the alcohol. He signals to Charlie for another round, and the robot pours it sloppily into his glass before zipping back down to the other end of the bar with a whiff of fuel.

"Drinking alone on Christmas, huh?" Magnolia's voice is knowing, as always. She's on the stool next to him, and he wobbles a little when he turns to look at her. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect teeth. A little old for him, perhaps - she's got to be at least forty, right? - but when has that ever stopped him before. He thinks of the last time they -

No, not tonight. He can't, not when the image of Lucy is already starting to fade. Was her hair auburn or more brown? He can't remember and it kills him.

"I'm not the only one," he quips. Magnolia gives him a small smile, empathetic and alluring.

"You want to take this party somewhere else?" Her voice is a purr; she's a lion, or a tiger. She'll swallow him whole and he'll never know it was coming.

MacCready takes another drink of whiskey and tries to fix his eyes on Magnolia. Her dress glints and shimmers in the dim light, casting red glimmers across his legs and over the wooden structure of the bar. It'd be so _easy_ to go home with her, to bury himself in her skin and let the whiskey and the heat between her legs wipe it all away.

But no; tonight he's not drinking to forget. He's drinking because there's no other choice. He's alone in the vast, wide world, when he thought he wouldn't be. He's alone and he was supposed to be with Lucy, and he failed her, and so he drinks to punish himself.

"Not tonight," he says, trying to imbue his words with some amount of regret but just sounding annoyed. He doesn't want to hurt her feelings, but he needs to remember.

Lucy, in the dark of the tunnel, her screams as she was torn apart by the ferals. The sound of flesh ripping, tearing; the feeling of Duncan's little body pressed to his chest and the wail of the baby, too young to understand why his mother was being left behind in that dark hole. The way the little guy wept and asked for mama over and over for days on end, until MacCready couldn't handle it anymore and, tears leaking from his eyes, began the journey back to the Capitol Wasteland, back to Little Lamplight.

Back to safety.

"That's fine, dear. Have yourself a Merry Christmas." Magnolia brushes one hand from his knee up towards his hip, fingers trailing along his inner thigh, and he feels a regretful twitch inside him, but MacCready knows he's made the right decision. He watches her walk across the room to another figure in red, king of the rejects: Mayor Hancock, resplendent and drunk, or perhaps high on mentants and Jet, laughing as she pulls him towards her, one hand spreading across her hip like a virus.

He takes another drink from his glass and then it's empty again. This year isn't what it was supposed to be; he should have been with Lucy, with Duncan. The three of them, in their small shack by the water, a happy family around a radio. A laughing child in his arms, perhaps a new baby on the way. No blue boils, no tribe of ferals biting into his wife's throat, strangling her with their teeth.

A wave to Charlie, the signal for another drink, for oblivion.


	12. Most Wonderful Time of Year (Preston)

Hallelujah: It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year (Preston)

* * *

It's a comfort, being around so many people. There haven't been so many souls in his care since Quincy. Preston isn't sure if he deserves them, but he's going to try his best to make sure everyone is safe, protected.

They're all congregated around a tree at the end of the cul-de-sac, the large one in the garden at the center of the road. Someone - the old Mr. Handy, if he's to believe the gossip - has hung decorations from it, and they glint in the moonlight that glints off the snow on the ground. For the first time in months, since before Quincy, Preston feels an intense pride flickering in his chest.

These are his people, he thinks. His people, and they have cause to celebrate.

Even Marcy Long is quiet for once, her constant griping silenced by the miracle of the winking fairy lights in the tree. Jun pulls her to him with a gentle arm around her shoulder and for a moment Preston indulges in a pang of yearning; he's been alone for so long, been everyone else's protector, and he's so very tired.

The General walks past, that massive dog trotting at her side and he perks up, the realization hitting him at once.

He may be lonely, but Preston is not alone. He has help now, he has someone who will help him keep these people safe and fed and warm in the bleak Commonwealth winter. He has someone who makes them feel safe enough that the phenomenon of snow is cause for celebration and not fear. He sees Jun Long take a nip from a small glass bottle and pass it off to his right, away from Preston, to Sturges, who grins his lopsided smile and takes it gladly. Little Mary Jackson whose family moved in last week lets out a whoop and grabs armfuls of snow, throwing it at anyone who dares get within ten feet of her.

Despite himself, despite the desperation that's plagued him for months, Preston feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. For what feels like the first time in a year, he lowers his rifle and sets it down to gaze in wonder at the tree. He hears the General approach, but he's too transfixed by the glitter of the lights to look at her.

"I guess this means you like it," there's a teasing smile in her voice. A glass bottle is thrust into his hand, and Preston takes a gulp without looking, then another. Whiskey, not the cheap stuff but not the best either; it burns its way down his throat in a hot flash, deep into the pit of him. He tries not to wince at the burn of it but does anyway, earning a sympathetic smile from his General.

"It's...been a difficult year," he finally says. He looks back at the gilded tree, the green and red lights blinking on and off. A generator hums below but somehow even the sound of that doesn't ruin the effect of the lights winking at him in the desolate darkness around them. "Thank you for this." He gestures lamely at the tree, at the improbably glittering of the glass ornaments from the branches.

The General laughed, not unkindly. "I had nothing to do with this." Then, softer, "It was a surprise to me, too. Codsworth arranged it."

Well that's a surprise. Preston doesn't have any negative thoughts about robots, exactly, but he's still surprised by the fact that the Mr. Handy came up with the idea of this for himself.

"Really?" He tears his eyes from the tree and meets her steady gaze.

"Really," she says with a barely-suppressed smile. Preston finds his own lips quirking up into a smile in return, and he takes another sip from the bottle, swallowing more easily this time and passing it on to the next person. The glass is cold as it leaves his hand, but inside his chest is warm, heated by the whiskey and the companionship.

Across from them, almost on the other side of the tree, Mary Jackson and Mark Brendanowicz start a game of tag, throwing snowballs near each other as they run, hiding behind battered shrubs and parts of long-destroyed houses. When he looks back to the General, he sees for the first time how tired she is; dark smudges mark the tender skin below her eyes. This project he's dumped on her and all the responsibility that goes with it is wearing her down, grinding her down to grit.

For a moment, Preston feels a flicker of remorse, and then he looks at the smiling faces around the tree, at Marcy and Jun Long, who he never thought to see smiles from ever again. At Sturges, laughing at something Art Jackson said. At Mama Murphy, smiling her gap-toothed grin in her tattered chair; looking at them, at the new hope in their eyes where two months ago was nothing but despair, he knows he did the right thing.

It's better to grind down one person to dust than for five to die; no matter how he feels about that one, the math holds up. He's run it, every time he sees how tired she looks, how the weight of this new world weighs her down, and no matter how guilty it makes him feel, he knows that he made the right call.

They needed a new General and he found one. His instincts led him to the right person, insane as it is, and she will protect him, as she did before. Her hair glints darkly in the flashing bulbs, lighting her like a pre-war saint, the halo of light drifting around her head, illuminating the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the curve of her lips.

Still -

Still, he wonders if he made the right choice.


End file.
